


Less Auld Lang Syne, More New Tradition

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [31]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (sort of), Established Relationship, M/M, New Year's Kiss, Other, Singing, Traditions, a return of the Nanny brogue, look i have a soft spot for a scots accent okay, rating for a suggestive fade to black, so aziraphale does too, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout, what is fanfic for if not indulging yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 31 of the amazing advent calendar of prompts.Aziraphale has been waiting for a particular New Year's tradition, but it takes Crowley to remind him that they set the rules now.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 17
Kudos: 105





	Less Auld Lang Syne, More New Tradition

Aziraphale hums as he works: dusts the bookshelves and the books, rearranges the snuffboxes, straightens the various chairs scattered about the shop until it looks inviting, cozy, comfortable but not cramped.

The sign on the door is firmly flipped to ‘closed’, and has been all week.

He’s not tidying for customers - why bother? They tend to scatter trouble and disorder in their wake, and he’s glad to have seen the last of them, at least for this year. Now that he doesn’t feel the need to maintain the book-selling pretense so strongly, now that Heaven is no longer looking over his shoulder, his opening hours - sporadic at the best of times - might best be described as ‘abysmal’ this holiday season.

This year, really - the last half of it, at least, after Armageddon’t, after nearly failing to save the world. After believing the shop burned down to ashes, only to find it restored to mint condition by the grace of a human-incarnate Antichrist. After revelations about the Great Plan, and the Ineffable Plan, and the bureaucratic mindlessness of Heaven and Hell, and the absurdity of marching to a beat set so far in the past even its echoes have long since faded to silence.

After revelations rather more personal, more private. More human. More dear.

Yes, his operating hours have taken a walloping since the summer, and that’s really all for the best, but the shop should still look nice. Clutter has never really bothered Aziraphale - the flat upstairs is something even a hoarder might fear, a cluttered maze of haphazard book stacks and old furniture and boxes so old even Aziraphale can’t be certain of the contents, though it’s probably more books. No, clutter doesn’t bother Aziraphale, but Crowley -

Crowley likes things neat, so Aziraphale is tidying.

It’s not by request; Crowley would never dare make the slightest comment about Aziraphale’s environmental choices. He remembers the echoing emptiness of Heaven, too, even if he hadn’t just seen it; remembers how the walls, stretching far into the distance, and the ceilings, arching high, and the unrelenting spotless white, giving the appearance of going on forever, all combine into an oddly oppressive feeling, a squeezing sort of surrounding, for all that openness. He knows how wide open expanses make Aziraphale’s shoulders go stiff and his lungs go tight, and would never risk making the angel feel like that.

Aziraphale knows that, as surely as he knows that the press of disorganization, the encroachment of clutter into livable space, does the same thing to Crowley. He knows that cramped places, enclosures where too much is crowded into too small of a space, areas where chaos has taken full control and scattered any sense of organization to the wind - knows they press on Crowley’s chest the same way too much emptiness echoes in his, weigh on his shoulders and eyes until he’s fairly itching for escape. Even if he hadn’t picked up on that, during one swiftly aborted trip upstairs and a series of revelatory explorations around the Mayfair flat, well - he’s seen Hell, now. He’s familiar with the need to escape an oppressive environment.

So, a compromise, albeit one neither of them will mention aloud: the bookshop is tidy and neat, if full, and Crowley’s flat is open, but not bare or desolate. There is a balance struck between both places, veering slowly towards a perfect middle ground. They spend their days in Soho when they’re not meandering around London, and their nights in Mayfair like true commuter businesspeople, save for the rare occasion - like tonight - where they’ll while away the evening hours in the back room like days of yore.

Tonight is a celebration. It’s the new year, the turning of the calendar, and Aziraphale is waiting for Crowley to return from his “quick errand, won’t be an hour, angel” so they can settle in with some champagne and a safely contained fire, and count down the close of a decade together. It’s the beginning of a new tradition, for them. A human tradition.

There are a number of human traditions Aziraphale is excited to start, now. Counting down to a new year, making resolutions, a kiss at the stroke of midnight…

Well, he’s _particularly_ interested in that one. Has been thinking about it all day, in fact. He wriggles happily, contemplating the evening, and hums as he works. 

When the bell chimes Crowley’s return, he wriggles again. He smiles a little brighter, hums a little louder as the demon bustles about.

“Ah, Rabbie’s piece,” Crowley says finally, sidling close and brushing a kiss over Aziraphale’s cheek in greeting. “The humans have a particular fondness for that one this time of year.”

“It’s very fitting,” Aziraphale agrees, and turns for a proper kiss. He’s been thinking about it all day, after all; it never hurts to practice.

When he pulls away to turn back to the dusting, he tries not to sound too breathless as he says, “I always liked your Nanny accent.”

If they didn’t know each other so well, it’d be a non sequitur; as it is, Crowley shoots him a calculating look. “Is that so,” he drawls, but there’s a fond smile playing at the edges of his mouth, and he doesn’t so much as hesitate before succumbing to Aziraphale’s extremely unsubtle hint with grace and a lilting brogue.

“ _Should auld acquaintance be forgot  
and never brought to mind?  
Should auld acquaintance be forgot  
and auld lang syne?  
For auld lang syne, my jo,  
for auld lang syne;  
we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,  
for auld lang syne._”

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale murmurs, abandoning the dusting altogether. Crowley crowds up behind him and sings the next bit beside Aziraphale’s ear, low and soft and sweet. 

“ _And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup!  
And surely I’ll be mine!  
And we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,  
for auld lang syne._”

They sway now as Crowley sings, Aziraphale’s arms pinning Crowley’s around his stomach, their fingers twined together. It’s a little slow for the jaunty tune Crowley has taken, which is a fair bit faster than Aziraphale is used to hearing it sung, but it sounds absolutely perfect; he tries to stifle a delighted giggle when Crowley spins them around at “ _We twa hae run about the braes_ ,” fails as the demon shuffles them into a faltering, stumbling quickstep at the chorus. By the time they’ve reached the final verse, Crowley’s voice has risen to a broad, resonating thing, and Aziraphale is grinning widely.

“ _And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!  
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!  
And we’ll tak’ a right gude-willie waught,  
for auld lang syne._”

Crowley slows the final chorus, sways them in time with the now familiar tempo.

“ _For auld lang syne, my jo,  
for auld lang syne.  
We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,  
for auld lang syne._”

Aziraphale is breathless - from laughter, from their fumbling quickstep, from happiness. From love. He twists in Crowley’s arms, kisses the demon’s cheek in thanks.

“Did you know him?”

“Rabbie?” The brogue is still thick, curling at the consonants and stretching at the vowels, when Crowley answers. “Aye, a bit.”

Aziraphale doesn’t bother biting back his smile when he turns fully to press a brief - necessarily brief, this is not the moment to get carried away, that’s for later - kiss to Crowley’s lips. “Oh?”

“Not very well, mind ye,” Crowley clarifies, then laughs. It is a bright, sparkling sound that lights Aziraphale up from the inside. “It’s a bit harder to turn that off than I remembered.”

There’s still a soft burr to his consonants, but Aziraphale tucks the sound away in his heart without comment. “I think it’s lovely, dear,” he offers, and opens his mouth to continue, but Crowley kisses him instead. Kisses him warm and bright and happy, a kiss that warms Aziraphale right down to his toes, a kiss that turns deeper with the barest prompting, turns hotter, hungrier. When they finally pull apart again, Aziraphale has quite forgotten what he’d intended to say.

“Want to see what I brought?” Crowley asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer; he leads Aziraphale to the back room, where there’s - oh -

“You wanted a night in,” Crowley explains, “so I thought I’d bring the Ritz to you.”

There’s a full three-course dinner, complete with bonus cheese course, spread across the little table, which has grown nearly a meter in height and gained a white tablecloth and two familiar chairs. To the side, next to the champagne bucket, is a covered dish, no doubt hiding dessert; Crowley, thoughtful demon that he is, has always known how much Aziraphale enjoys dessert, and now that they’re able - and sometimes before, even when they weren’t - has never once passed up the opportunity to indulge him. 

The plates are achingly familiar; the silverware, too. Aziraphale considers swooning, then tucks his hand into Crowley’s elbow instead, rests his head on the bony shoulder there. He means to say _thank you_ , but what comes out instead is a helpless, “I love you.”

Crowley beams.

“I love you too, angel.” He leads them to the familiar chairs, holds out Aziraphale’s and waits for the angel to settle in before sprawling into his own. The champagne cork comes free with a satisfying _pop_ , and he fills their glasses.

“I thought the champagne would be for later,” Aziraphale teases, just to see Crowley’s smile - and there it is, a sparkling sunshine thing.

“Oh, I think we’ll have plenty, angel.”

They do, but they take their time anyway, savoring it; the first bottle lasts through the meal, and the second is uncorked only after the table shrinks back to its familiar height, chairs and tableware waved away, the angel and demon settled comfortably together in their new places on the sofa, side by side. They’ve barely started on the third bottle of champagne when Aziraphale - still very focused on their upcoming new traditions - begins to get restless.

“Alright there, angel?”

“How is it still so _early_ ,” Aziraphale huffs, glaring at the clock, which dares to read a quarter past ten. He’s ready for midnight. They discussed resolutions over dinner, harmless, simple things - no more gluing coins to the sidewalk for Crowley, updated slang for Aziraphale, continued contact with the Armageddon’t crew for both of them - and now one particular tradition is back on his mind, but the clock is moving so _slowly_.

Crowley laughs. “There’s no rush, you know.”

“I know, but -” _but I want to kiss you_ , Aziraphale swallows back. He can, he knows; has already, multiple times tonight, each kiss harder and harder to break, until he dares not turn in for another for fear they’ll miss the midnight chime. “I just want - new traditions, and all.”

It’s a woefully inadequate explanation for the jangling, shivering, anticipatory _want_ that has lodged in his breastbone. New traditions, new beginnings, a new year - a year where, finally, they can do exactly as they please, from moment one to the very last second, no rules or restrictions holding them back. A new year, a year for them. The first of very, very many.

The first of a lifetime.

When Aziraphale braves a glance over at Crowley, fully prepared for soft laughter and teasing, he finds contemplation instead, a spark of understanding. A hint of the yearning he’s been feeling, all day. A simmer of heat.

“We can make our own traditions, you know,” Crowley offers, voice confessional-soft and full of promise. Full of want. “Whatever we want.”

When Aziraphale hesitates, eyes caught on Crowley’s lips, the demon adds, “We don’t have to wait anymore, angel. Not if we don’t want to.”

He doesn’t want to, damn the clock; he lunges for Crowley just as Crowley surges towards him, and they meet in the middle, soft lips and wet mouths and warm breath and hands, hands everywhere, as the clock ticks leisurely towards midnight on this, the last night of their last year of waiting.

When the clock finally strikes twelve, an unnoticed hour and change later, Crowley pulls himself away from where he had been very, _very_ busy, and grins, laughs, positively _sparkles_ up at Aziraphale.

“Happy New Year, angel.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, which is just as well; Aziraphale manages “Happy N-oh, _Crowley_ -” before swearing a blue streak at the ceiling. It’s alright - there will be plenty of time for Aziraphale to finish the sentiment, return the favor. There’s always next year.

They’re establishing new traditions, after all.


End file.
